9/III.

Dear Anya,

I've quite fallen out of the habit of writing letters this year. Life goes along so monotonously that one doesn't know what to write about. This winter I sat stubbornly at home working away, not venturing out of my quarter for months on end. It rained constantly, and there was no riding a bicycle or going for walks. I read little and attended no lectures at all. That's probably why I found winter so terribly tiresome. I'm very glad spring has come, and it's come very early this year. Volodya and I have already gone out twice to the bosom of nature. True, after these walks I'm so exhausted I can barely move, but it's wonderfully refreshing all the same. We've been having quite a social week. We went to the theater—the play was idiotic, the Frenchwomen howled desperately, but there was wonderful music in the intermissions: Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Borodin. Today we're going to see Sophocles' *Electra*... All this is on account of spring. And haven't you been spoiling us with your parcels this year! Volodya has even learned how to go to the cupboard on his own and eat outside the meal plan—that is, at times other than the scheduled hours. He'll come in from somewhere and have a snack.

Now he drinks milk at night (instead of wine) and eats eggs in the mornings.

I've pickled the herring the way you wrote—very tasty, rather like salmon. I'm thinking of baking some blini one of these days.

Mama is feeling a bit poorly from time to time. As for summer, I don't yet know what will happen—whether she'll go to Russia or not. She sends her greetings to everyone.

Regarding my niece, I've already corresponded with her.

We see M. F. very rarely—he's very busy, hurrying along with a translation (he's translated three thick books this year), and now he's received some permanent medical translation work. Kolya* is very pleased with his school—they play the phonograph for him there, tell him stories, give him crosses, and teach him... to write little sticks. But he's starting to chatter in French.

That's all the news. Did Manyasha receive my letter? Why hasn't she written anything for so long?

* Son of M. F. Vladimirsky. Editor.